


The dancer and the bad boy

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: H.I.A.T.U.S. collection [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Ballet Dancer Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 04:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14347794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: John has to go out with Sherlock because of a dare with his friends, but Sherlock sees through his game and rejects him. Knowing that he has been an asshole, John decides to apologize, and he realizes that he really wants a date with Sherlock.





	The dancer and the bad boy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [H.I.A.T.U.S.](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/post/172418568772/aprils-theme-is-balletlock) April Johnlock challenge.  
> Theme is balletlock, and I chose this prompt (with a little twist): John is the resident ‘bad boy’ at University, he’s been dared by his friends to go on a date with the untouchable, cold, ballet dancer Sherlock Holmes. Will John win Sherlock’s heart as well as the bet? Or is this relationship built on false pretence doomed to fail?

At the end of the lesson, the dancers swarmed into the locker room, hastening to change into their regular clothes.

"Tessa took some new photos of her cat."

"Send them to me."

"Done."

"Oh god, have you seen how cute it is?"

"Yes, it's a sweet cat."

"I'm starving, who's coming with me to eat a bite?"

"I pass: unfortunately I have an exam in three days and I have to study."

"What about you? Julia, Edward?"

"I'll gladly come."

"Me too. I want to try the new Mexican restaurant. You know, the one that opened last week."

"Ah yes, then we have to take the car."

The lockers were closed, the coats buttoned up, and the bags slung over their shoulder; all the dancers left the locker room.

All but one.

Sherlock Holmes had sat all the time on a bench with his eyes closed, music in his ears, and he was still wearing his leotard.

Nobody had asked him to join the other dancers to go out to eat, and no one had said him goodbye, but it was not news.

Just focused on the dance, abrupt and sarcastic, Holmes had ended up arguing with all his mates.

He came back on the parquet and positioned himself at the barre, making some bends, carefully observing himself in the mirror, correcting even the slightest imperfection, but suddenly the light went out.

"Who the hell is there?" He shouted irritably.

"It’s me. Until proven otherwise, this is my dance class, and the lesson was over half an hour ago."

It was Irene Adler, their teacher. She had already changed, she wore an elegant evening dress, and was very annoyed by the mishap.

"You can go, I have the keys."

"That's not the point," Irene replied. "What part of  _ 'the lesson is over' _ didn’t you understand? I'm your teacher: it would be nice if you listened to me from time to time."

"I’m only doing a few basic exercises and don’t bother anyone."

"Exercises you could do with your eyes closed, you don’t need it."

"To get where I want, perfection is required."

Sherlock had chosen that university exclusively for his prestigious dance class: some of Irene's students now were in the Royal Ballet, and it was exactly where Sherlock wanted to get.

"If you train too hard, you risk hurting yourself. Go back to the dorm," Irene ordered, and Sherlock glared at her.

"Don’t unleash your frustration out on me, if you haven’t yet managed to sleep with your new girlfriend, after the fourth date. Leave me alone."

Irene grimaced in annoyance.

"You know, it's also because of your disturbing deductions that your classmates never invite you out with them after the lessons."

"I wouldn’t accept to go out with that bunch of cretins anyway, they’re more interested in posting photos on Instagram than in training."

Irene shook her head.

"You can be the best dancer in the world, but with this contemptuous attitude of yours, you'll never get anywhere. And now, out of here."

Sherlock snorted, but finally he obeyed.

"Anyway, you're not going to get anything tonight: she's not really interested in you," Sherlock said, in a lieu of goodbye.

Irene massaged her temples: what an impossible boy! If he hadn’t been his best student ever, she would have already threw him out.

 

*

 

_ "A seven of diamonds, I need a seven of diamonds." _

The card that John took was five of clubs: he had lost.

"Shit!" He growled, throwing the cards on the ground.

"It's my lucky night!" Bill Murray howled, finishing his beer. Moran patted him on the shoulder, making the beer go sideways, and everyone laughed.

"You're an asshole, Sebastian!" Bill said, once he ceased coughing.

In response, Moran flipped him the bird.

John gathered the cards to put them away, but Bill stopped him.

"You can’t go away with that, Badson."

John snorted: he hated that nickname that his friend had given him, but it was stuck on him by now, and he was knowns in the whole campus as John Badson.

Once he had knocked down and sent to the hospital three drunken hooligans who had attacked him: since then, Watson had the reputation of a "bad boy", and then Bill had come out with that ridiculous nickname.

"If you want some money, you’re out of luck: I'm broke."

Bill crossed his arms over his chest, thinking, and John rolled his eyes: someone should forbid Bill to think, he always came up with crazy ideas.

"What about a dare?"

"I accept," Watson replied, without even thinking for a moment.

Perhaps his fame was partly deserved, because John never backed off in front of a dare, especially if it was a very stupid dare.

"You have to convince Holmes to go out with you."

"Holmes, the dancer?"

"And then people say I’m the sadist," Moran guffawed, opening another beer.

"But he will never accept!” John protested John, “I am a man."

"Holmes is gay."

"Do you say it just because he's a ballet dancer? You have more prejudices than an old bigot, Bill."

"I say it because I know. Do you know Molly Hooper?"

John nodded: they attended some lessons together, even though he had never exchanged a word with her.

"A few months ago Molly has asked Holmes out, and he, in response, told her that  _ 'girls aren’t his area' _ ."

“Oh, well…”

Not that this made things easier: if John had the reputation of being a bad boy, Holmes had the reputation of being surly and unapproachable. He was the only one that didn’t share the room with anyone at the dorm, because other students resisted only for a few weeks next to him.

"What do I gain if I win the bet?"

"Thirty pounds."

"Let's make fifty."

"Okay," Bill replied, knowing well that he had given John an impossible task.

"What if I lose?"

"This summer you will have to give math and chemistry lessons to my brother, for free."

John snorted, annoyed: Bill's brother wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb on the tree, it wouldn’t be a fun summer.

"I'm in. I really need fifty pounds right now."

"Don’t count the money before you have it in your pocket, Badson."

 

The next day John began studying Sherlock from a distance. 

The task wasn’t easy, since the dancer was basically a ghost in the campus: he attended very few lessons, was hardly ever in the library or in the cafeteria (enough to make John believe that he lived on air). He was always closed in his room or in the dance studio.

What excuse could John find to go out with such a misanthrope?

They had no interests in common, and certainly John couldn’t approach him chatting about classical ballet: he knew absolutely nothing about it.

He couldn’t even get close to him through a mutual friend, since Holmes didn’t seem to have any friends, either in the university or outside.

John was already resigning to tutoring Bill's brother, when fate helped him in an unexpected way: John was climbing the central staircase of the main building, and Holmes was coming down: he had his eyes fixed on his phone and didn’t notice a boy passing by.

At the last moment, and deliberately, this boy bumped Sherlock with his backpack, throwing him off balance.

If it wasn’t for John, who sprinted forward and supported him, Sherlock would tumble down the stairs; like his cell phone, which ended up in a thousand pieces on the marble floor.

"Are you okay?" John asked, helping him regain his balance.

Holmes nodded, but didn’t answer.

John couldn’t believe what he had just seen: that other boy had risked hurting Sherlock seriously.

"Hey!” John cried, and all the students turned their head. “Hey you, stop!”

But the other boy left the building as if nothing had happened.

"Forget it," Sherlock murmured. He went downstairs and picked up the remains of his cell phone.

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes, he is in my dance class: he obviously didn’t like my criticism of his  _ pas de chat _ ."

"You have to tell someone: the dean or your dance teacher."

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's useless: he would say that he didn’t do it on purpose, or that he didn’t notice it."

John was upset: Sherlock was talking about that incident as if it were nothing.

Or as if it were something that always happened in his life.

The thought made John feel sorry for him.

"I would testify."

"I don’t know how much Badson's word would be taken into consideration."

John rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"One day or another I'll kill Bill," he murmured.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise: he had always thought that John Watson was happy with that silly nickname, but the mention of it had made him angry, why?

Oh, of course, Sherlock thought as he deduced John: everything was born of a misunderstanding. After all, John had been thoughtful with him, he seemed really different from his reputation.

"However, you should pay more attention and look where you are going, when you are walking. You're a dancer, it would be a nuisance if you hurt yourself."

"I know very well!" Sherlock replied in a harsh tone, and walked away a few steps, but at last he turned and thanked John.

John raised his hand to say bye, smiled at him, and then went to his class.

Only several minutes later he realized that he hadn’t taken advantage of that casual encounter as he should have done: he hadn’t shown off his charm, for which he was famous among the girls (and some boys) of the university, nor had he asked Sherlock his number or if they could see each other again.

He had only prevented him from falling, which was a good deed, but he wouldn’t help him to win the bet.

 

Some other day passed, and Sherlock finally appeared in the cafeteria. He sat down at a table, alone, and opened a book.

John and his friends were seated on the other side of the room.

"So,” Bill teased him, “Are you making progress with Holmes? Or are you already writing the homework schedule for my brother?"

"Of course I’m making progress, see for yourself!" John replied, faking a cockiness he didn’t have.

He got up and joined Sherlock, rebuking himself for his sudden nervousness: he had already talked to him, there was no reason to get agitated.

"Hey, hello."

John smiled, hands sunk in his trouser pockets.

Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading.

"Oh, hello."

He seemed surprised that someone had spoken to him, and again John felt a little sorry for him. Sherlock wasn’t inviting him to sit down, but his didn’t seem rudeness: it was rather as if the dancer wasn’t used to interact with other people.

An annoying little voice in his head told John that to make fun of a so introvert boy with a fake date was cruel, but John silenced it: after all, it was just a harmless joke, right?

"How are you? You didn’t have any consequences, did you?"

"No, thank to you."

John smiled and scratched the back of his head: "I didn’t do anything special."

Sherlock was about to respond to his smile, but, at the last moment, an alarm ringed in his head: John's smile was different from the one of the previous day, it didn’t seem genuine, it was like he was hiding something, and this put him on the defensive.

"And what about your cell phone?" John asked.

"Still in a thousand pieces."

"Didn’t you buy a new one?"

Sherlock shrugged: "Not yet, I don’t use it often."

It was clear that he didn’t have many people who were in contact with him, and John felt more and more uncomfortable about what he was doing, but he had made a bet and didn’t want to lose face in front of his friends.

"Really? Today nobody can live without a phone. Look, if you don’t have anything better to do this afternoon, we could go to go shopping for a new one. What do you think?"

"Together?"

"Yes, sure."

John smiled again, and at that point, Sherlock knew that something was wrong for real: the other day John seemed genuinely interested in him, but it made no sense that a guy with whom he had never exchanged a word, wanted to spend some time with him. Why?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked at John's friends, who were giggling.

In an instant he understood, and it was like being cut by a cold blade: this would taught him not to be take interest in other people, even if they seemed nice.

As his brother always said, caring was a disadvantage.

"A dare, seriously? You and your friends must have a really dingy life, if you still have fun with children's games," Sherlock exclaimed, standing up suddenly.

He had spoken aloud, and everyone was watching them, but he was hurt, and he didn’t care about anything.

John became white like a sheet, and turned to his friends with a furious glare, silently asking them if they had talked about the dare. This obviously fully supported Sherlock's deduction.

"I... well, I..."

"Spare me your excuses, you're too stupid to find a credible one. How much would you have earned from the bet, thirty pounds? No, fifty... at least you have standards. Here, take it, and never speak to me again.”

With a gesture full of contempt, Sherlock threw a bill on the table, while John just stayed there, petrified. 

“And for a moment I thought you were different..." he murmured, then left the cafeteria.

As soon as Sherlock got out, the air filled with whispers and giggles.

Bill and Sebastian walked to John, who still didn't move.

"I would say you lost your bet, mate."

"Fuck you Bill, why did you tell him everything?" John roared.

"What? I didn’t do it."

"Hey, don’t look at me, I never talked to that asshole," Moran said, raising his arms.

“It's impossible, he even knew how much money we bet."

"It's one of the many reasons Holmes is so weird: he knows things about people, without anyone telling him anything."

John sighed and left the room.

"Hey, and the money?"

"I don't want them."

He could never take them, it was too humiliating.

"Oh well, then..." Bill said, and he pocketed the bill.

His day worsened further during the biology class. John was taking notes, but his pen stopped writing, so he leaned towards Sarah, one of his classmates (and his ex-girlfriend), to ask for one, but she ignored him completely.

"What's the matter with you, are you on your period?" He asked her at the end of the lesson.

"You really are an asshole," Sarah hissed, closing her book abruptly.

"Okay sorry, it was a stupid joke. But why are you angry at me?"

Sarah looked at him, stunned: "Are you really asking? Today I was in the cafeteria, I saw what happened. Tell me: was Holmes right? Did you really want to ask him out, for a dare?"

"You know how my friends are: if I had refused, I would never heard the end of it."

"You're the worst.” The girl shook her head, “I can’t believe I’ve been your girlfriend."

"It was an innocent joke," John protested; he felt already guilty enough on his own, he didn’t need Sarah to twist the knife in the wound.

"No, it wasn’t. Look, I don’t even like Holmes, but from what I understand, he is a very lonely and isolated boy, without a friend. Did you ask yourself how would he feel, if he had fallen for you, when you told him it was only a joke?"

John lowered his eyes, flushing with shame, and didn’t answer.

"No, of course not. This is your problem, John! You never think."

Sarah was right: he hadn't thought of the consequences of their dare; for him, it had been just a funny joke between friends. He didn’t know Sherlock and he didn’t mean to hurt him, but that was what would happen.

He was almost relieved to have been unmasked, and now he felt the urge to apologize to Sherlock. It wouldn’t be easy, and after what happened in the cafeteria, maybe Sherlock wouldn’t believe him, but he had to do it.

He went back to his bedroom, stood in front of the mirror and tried to think about a few words of apology, but they sounded empty and fake and, after a while, he threw himself on the bed, annoyed: why did he always get carried away by his friends?

He absentmindedly flipped through a comic book, until he realized that the sky was dark; he snorted and put on his shoes, aware that the more time he let pass, the more difficult it would be to apologize.

He knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door, but no one answered.

"If you're looking for Holmes, you'll find him in the dance studio," a boy said him, as he walked down the corridor.

"Yet?"

Dinner time had long since passed.

The boy shrugged: "He spends more time there than anywhere else."

Indeed, the light in the dance studio was still on; there was no one around, but from the hallway, John heard music coming from the rehearsal room.

He looked in and saw Sherlock, who was performing some dance steps in front of the mirror: he had a terribly focused, almost ferocious expression on his face, as he moved fast and agile on the parquet, but suddenly he stopped at the barre and punched the mirror, so hard that John winced and jumped back, fearing for a moment that the glass would shatter.

"NO, NO! IT'S ALL WRONG! "Sherlock shouted and his voice rumbled in the empty room, covering the music.

He bowed his head, and stayed still for a few minutes, then walked to the boombox, rewinded the song, and began to dance again.

John walked away silently and left the building: it wasn’t the right time to apologize, and Sherlock would have been very embarrassed if he had known that John had seen him like that.

On his way back to the dorm, he really regretted accepting Bill's stupid dare: if he hadn’t, now things between him and Sherlock would be different. Starting from that fortuitous meeting on the stairs, they could have been friends for real, and maybe even more.

He really felt he had lost a unique chance with a special person.

 

Anyway, he still had to apologize to Sherlock. He wanted to do it more than ever, so he went back to the dance studio the next evening, but Sherlock was still dancing with the utmost determination, and John didn’t want to bother him.

But it was not just that: John had never been interested in ballet, classic or modern, because he found it boring, his only hobbies were sport and making idiotic dares with his friends, apparently.

At least until he saw Sherlock dance. He didn’t recognize the style, nor the steps, nor the music in the background, but he couldn’t help himself: he standed there, in a corner, admiring him, holding his breath, almost with veneration: he had never seen a more captivating show, and Sherlock was brilliant, he could give shape to music and tell a story with his body.

And when Sherlock got angry because he judged his own movements less than perfect, John would have liked to come forward, calm him, and help him somehow.

Instead, once again he just watched him in secret, hold back by an unusual shyness.

That evening, in his room, John rubbed his face in front of the bathroom mirror: he wasn’t a 'bad boy', he felt as pathetic as the protagonist of a Harlequin novel.

 

This ritual, that saw Sherlock as the unbeknown object of John’s admiration, went on for a few days, until one night John suddenly heard heels on the floor of the hallway, and before he could hide, Miss Adler walked beside him and slammed open the door of the rehearsal room.

"Are you deaf? Don’t you understand English any more?” She ranted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and wiped the sweat from his face with a towel.

"I was hoping that this last girlfriend would keep you busy longer."

"How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want you to train too hard? Why don’t you go out and have fun with your friend?”

"What friend? I have no friends."

"This one."

Irene grabbed John by the arm before he could escape, and dragged him in front of the door.

"No... here... I..." John stammered.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Didn’t you know he was here?” Irene interjected, “Why? Actually, do you know what? I don’t want to know, just get out of here within ten minutes, both of you!"

Then she turned on her heels and went away.

"Well? I'm waiting for an answer," Sherlock insisted sharply, gathering his things.

"See... I..."

"How did you get to university, if you can’t even put together a meaningful sentence?"

"Dammit!” John snapped, “Has anyone told you that you are impossible?"

"Everyone," Sherlock answered carelessly.

"And they're right," John retorted.

"Why the hell are you here?" Sherlock cried, throwing the towel at him.

John grabbed it and tossed to the ground: "I came to apologize to you, you imbecile!"

"And you do it by insulting me?"

"If you get off your high horse for a moment and listened to me, it would be easier."

"I'm not on a high horse."

"Yes, you are, constantly! And now shut up!"

Sherlock looked at John indignantly, and he didn’t know how to reply, so John took advantage of it.

"I wanted to tell you that I was stupid, that the bet was stupid, and I'm sorry, I’m so very sorry. Also, I wanted to tell you that your ballet is beautiful!" John continued to scream as if he were angry, so Sherlock responded in same way, and his "thank you" was more like a snarl than a word.

"You’re welcome."

"Fine!" Sherlock yelled, putting his hands on his hips.

"Very fine!" John answered, throwing his arms in the air.

Right then, they both realized they were profoundly ridiculous and, in an instant, they burst out laughing.

Sherlock turned to the other side, trying to maintain a minimum of dignity, while John leaned on his knees and laughed openly, until he had tears in his eyes.

"What the hell are we doing?"

"I don’t know," Sherlock snorted, looking back at him.

"But I'm serious: I'm really sorry, I didn’t think I'd hurt you with that bet. It was an idiot thing to do, forgive me.”

Sherlock studied him carefully and understood that John was sincere: he hadn’t had any malicious intent against him, he had only behaved like a fool.

"Apologies accepted."

"Thank you. Now we better go, I don’t want your teacher to scold us again, she is terrifying."

Sherlock chuckled and nodded, gathered his things, and went into the locker room to change; when he came out again, John was still there, waiting for him.

Sherlock didn’t expect him to be: John had no reason to wait for him, now that they had cleared up. However, when John smiled and held the door open for him, Sherlock was glad he did.

He looked at John again, and deduced something else of him.

"This is not the first night you come to the dance studio."

"No, it isn’t. Did you hear me? I thought I was silent."

"No, I deduced it, as I deduced that you didn’t really want to go out with me last week."

"How do you do this? Do you look at people and understand everything about them?"

"Not really everything, but it works like that, broadly."

"It's extraordinary!"

Sherlock wasn’t used to get compliments for his strange talent. On the contrary: many people considered it strange and disturbing.

And this time John was honest.

"Thanks," he muttered in response.

John shrugged, in a somewhat rude gesture, that Sherlock judged fascinating.

"I only told the truth."

"Why did you come here and you never show up?"

John scratched his head and sighed.

"I know I look like a voyeur, but truth is that I never dared to interrupt you."

"You could do it: it was not a ballet in front of an audience, I was rehearsing."

"Well, I couldn’t do it, it would have been like screaming in a museum or in a church."

Sherlock shook his head, almost annoyed. John gave him too much credit: he didn’t deserve so much admiration, not when he continued to make mistakes in his dance.

"I’m not that good," Sherlock said brusquely, and John gaped at him.

"Are you serious?"

"There is nothing that I take more seriously than dance."

John ran a hand through his hair.

"My god, and to think that that room is full of mirrors."

"What do you mean?"

"You don’t see yourself," John snapped. "Really, you have no idea of the effect you have on people when you dance. You…” John struggled for the right words, “you are enchanting, you leave me speechless. I don’t know why you insist on thinking that people only see your faults, when I only notice how good you are."

Sherlock was grateful that the garden was dark, outside the dance studio, so John couldn’t see how much he blushed.

"You don’t know anything about dancing," he muttered, defensively.

"And the fact that a person who doesn’t understand anything, still find you very good, doesn’t tell you anything?” John retorted, exasperated. “You know, you really should learn to accept a compliment."

"I would, if it sounded like a compliment and not like an insult," Sherlock replied, but without bitterness.

"Apparently, this is how we communicate," John noted.

"Apparently yes."

"And it works."

"It's crazy," Sherlock said, shaking his head.

"Yes, but it still works."

They laughed again and walked towards the main building.

When they reached the dorm, they said goodnight and headed to their room.

It was only when he was lying in bed that John realized it: now that he had apologized to Sherlock, he had no excuse to go see him dancing again.

That night he couldn’t sleep.

 

John closed the textbook he was studying, and sighed loudly: he couldn’t concentrate, even if Bill wasn’t there to distract him with his usual chattering.

His gaze continued to go to the window, in the direction of the dance studio, where a light was on.

Clearly, Sherlock was still ignoring his teacher's orders.

Seeing that he couldn’t study anything that evening, he put on his shoes and walked to the dance studio, but stopped at the door, with his hand on the handle.

The truth was that, even if Sherlock accepted his apology, John didn’t know if he had the right to be there.

Or maybe he was just scared. Scared that if, this time, he asked Sherlock to go out with him, not for a dare, but because he really wanted it, he would have been turned down.

After all, what did they have in common?

Nothing.

He felt like an idiot, out there.

He closed the door and went back to the dorm.

Sherlock heard the sound of a slamming door, stopped dancing, and ran down the corridor, but it was empty.

He walked to the door, opened it and looked into the garden: there was no one there, but the handle, on the other side of the door, was still warm, as if someone had held on to it for a long time, undecided about what to do.

_ "John?"  _ He wondered, with a glint of hope.

"Yes, he was here," Irene said behind him, making him start. "If you run, you can reach him before he enters the room."

"Why should I?" Sherlock hissed, slamming the door closed.

"Do you need a drawing?"

"John approached me only because of a stupid dare with his friends."

"Yes, after your show in the cafeteria, the whole university knows it. But then he apologized, and he seems to have found something interesting in you. God only knows what, with that terrible attitude of yours."

However, seeing that Sherlock wasn’t going to follow his advice and run after John, Irene raised her hands in surrender, mumbling something about how stupid men were, and how lucky she was to be a lesbian, then left him alone.

Sherlock bit his lip: he hated to admit it, but Irene was right.

Despite their relationship hadn’t started in the best way, John had taken a step forward and apologized. Not everyone would have had the courage to do it.

And yes, Sherlock wanted to see him again.

 

John came back in his room after the last lesson, and found Bill waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on his bed, a grin on his face that made John roll his eyes internally.

"No, I won’t come with you playing cards in Sebastian's room, I don’t feel like it."

"Maybe this will cheer you up," Bill said, waving an envelope in the air.

It was addressed to John, and inside there was an invitation to the dance recital of the ballet company of the university, which would be held at the city theater the following afternoon.

"So,” Bill laughed, “it seems that in the end you won the bet, even if the bet is gone."

"It's not a bet to me," John warned.

"Yes, I understood it from your languid look."

"I don’t have a languid look," John protested, throwing his his pillow at Bill.

"Yes, you have."

John smiled, put the invitation in his pocket and went out again. There were many things he had to do.

A few hours later, Sherlock heard a knock on his door.

There was no one outside, but on the floor he found a red rose and an envelope: it was the invitation to dinner in a rather exclusive restaurant downtown.

Scribbled on the back of the invitation, a few words:

**"It's a real date, and I will not accept a no as an answer.**

**JW"**

But this time Sherlock had no intention of refusing.


End file.
